


I’ll Miss the Shackles

by Iron



Series: TFCon Commissions [1]
Category: Transformers Cyberverse, Transformers: All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Mindsex, PWP/Plot What Plot?, Prisoner/Jailer Relationship, Sticky Interfacing, no violence, possible dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Slipstream is captured by the Autobots, and Windblade is ordered to interrogate her. She quickly loses control of the situation.
Relationships: Megatron/Starscream (mentioned), Windblade/Slipstream, m - Relationship
Series: TFCon Commissions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566976
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	I’ll Miss the Shackles

It’s supposed to be an interrogation. 

Windblade is desperately holding onto that. 

Slipstream’s mind is smooth, thoughts flicking through her mind too-quick and too-bright and _sharp_ , and Windblade catches only phantoms of what they might be as they spin around them. Slipstream herself is painfully still, kneeling on the platform that her mind has given her to ground herself in her mindscape. Windblade is standing, and her command of her own mind allows her to shackle Slipstream. 

The femme is looking up at her with a wry smirk, red optics gleaming. “So. You’ve got me where you want me. What now?” 

“Now you tell me what you know.” 

“What you think I know,” she corrects. “I was a grunt. It’s not like they tell us grunts what High Command’s doing.” 

“You’re one of Starscream’s officers. You were there when the war _started_ -“ 

“So were you, and what do you know about what Prime’s planning next?” She scoffs, arms straining against the bindings on her wrists. “Primus, why did you have to make these so _tight_?” 

Windblade doesn’t know, so she just scowls and rests her ped against Slipstream’s shoulder, threatening to topple her back. “You have to know _something_.” 

“I can tell you how many times Screamer frags Megatron in a week, and that’s about it.” She shrugs her shoulders, a sharp, rolling movement, thighs spreading as she readjusts how she’s kneeling, too top heavy to keep up the position for long. Her eyes are too low to be looking at - _Oh_. 

Windblade notices that the way she’s standing puts her panel directly into Slipstream’s line of sight, and, flushing with embarrassment, puts her foot back on the ground. “That’s not… that is _not_ tactically important.” She hesitates. “… but it will settle some bets for me. Handprints on the wings?” 

“Screamer wishes, the masochist. No. They are disappointingly vanilla. Reflector got a recording of them once. I think we all about fell asleep when we tried to watch it. Skywarp’s just a clingy little fragger.” 

“You watched your commanders frag?” Windblade feels her internal temperature jump a few degrees. It’s just… _obscene_. Especially since she can suddenly see it, the memory of her watching it in the rec room with the rest of the base suddenly blown up behind her, and Slipsteam’s mind fills with the sound of squelching and movement. 

“What else would we do? It’s not like this war has left us much in the way of _entertainment options_.” 

“But it’s – it’s Starscream! And _Megatron_!” 

“And they’re both hot as frag.” She smirks, mouth curving up into a sharp sickle as her sharper eyes narrow. “Oooh, you think so too, don’t you? The loyal little Autobot’s getting all rev’d by a couple of ‘cons fragging! By _the_ ‘cons fragging!” 

Windblade stumbles back a half step, frame suddenly feeling too-real and hot. “I am _not_.” 

Slipstream cackles. “Oh, pretty bot, I’m not going to tell anyone. We all get a little… frazzled, thinking about those two. Even if the fragging is boring.” Her wings flick up and down, expression downright _sultry_. “That vid playing behind me is making me think that this, me and you? Wouldn’t be such a bad idea right now. Seeing as I can’t go anywhere _else_ …” 

“You’re a prisoner. You can’t consent to something like-“ She flushes. “ _That_.” 

“I think I can consent to whatever I want to.” 

Windblade is starting to feel like she’s lost control of the situation. 

It becomes even more clear when Slipstream’s bindings fall away and dissipate, as if they’d never been there at all. Windblade gasps as the other femme stands and stretches, frame pulling back into a hard curve as she pulls her arms above her helm. It puts the sharp nip of her waist on display, the effervescent blue light of the mindscape glinting off of the wetness just starting to gather between her thighs. 

“Going to have to say, I’ll miss the shackles.” A glossa flicks out to lick her bottom lip, and Windblade suddenly, sharply wishes it were her glossa on Slipstream’s mouth. “But I don’t think I’d get to keep the upper hand if I kept them on.” 

Windblade can’t move at all as Slipstream steps in front of her, engines humming. She can only shiver as the warm air from her vents brushes against Windblade’s armor. She barely notices as the memory being played changes, as it surrounds them in the sounds of feminine gasps and the sound of her own voice in pleasure, vorns younger than it is now. “What…?” 

Hands settle on her waist. “Four million years of war, and I still remember you best on your knees, mouth on my spike.” She groans as a sharp fanged mouth nips at her neck. Why are Seekers so much bigger than she is? At the least, Slipstream should be her size. She’s not, and she looms over Windblade as the femme finally gives in and pulls her down for a wet, hot kiss. 

She’s guided down to her knees, and she whines when Slipstream breaks the kiss. It’s only for a moment; she’s turned around until she’s facing the memory playing, knees nudged apart until Slipstream is settled easily between them. In the memory, Windblade is splayed across the berth, drooling as Slipstream slides fingers between the folds of her valve and opens her up with aching slowness. Wetness gathers on her thighs as her panel leaks, the locks generating insistent, annoying pings for her to open up. 

“Look at you. I remember that – how long was it before the War? Not long.” She grinds her panel against Windblade’s aft, hands rubbing up and down her chest. Her claws slide into seams and pluck at the delicate wires around her chest plate, and pleasure enough to make Windblade moan despite herself sings through her circuits. “You begged me to fill you up, and then when I did you asked for more. You were starved for my spike.” She scoffs. “Can those idiot Autobots give you what I did?” One hand digs into her folded up wing, scraping harshly over the sensitive metal. “They’re not capable of it.” 

Windblade arches into the touch, optics flaring white. “Ah!” 

“Say it! Tell me if they can make you feel as good as I can!” 

Her whole frame shudders as she loses the fight against her panel. It opens, lubricants slopping onto the floor. “No! No, they can’t, now will you _frag me_?” 

Slipstream laughs, her own panel folding back and spike surging out to kiss the small of her back. “You’re beautiful when you try to tell me what to do.” She presses forwards once, twice, spike sliding between the folds of her valve before finally – finally – 

Windblade cries out as the fat head of the spike stretches the first ring of calipers in her valve. She’s wet, she’s _soaked_ , but she knows the shape of Slipstream’s spike. She can see it rutting into her in the memory file, the bulbous head shoving into her valve as the past-Windblade squirms on the berth. Even for a Seeker it’s large, made up of ridges that flare, occasionally, into short, sharp looking nubs. She knows already how good every part of that gorgeous spike feels. 

In the file, Windblade overloads, spike spitting transfluid over her abdomen. Right now she’s trying to push _back_ into that spike, wanting to all but scream as Slipstream teases her with it. 

“What do I have to do to make you frag me?” She can feel optical fluids gathering at the corners of her optics. She’s so desperate she’s aching, and she’d have her hands on her own spike if she didn’t know it’d make her _stop_. 

Slipstream kisses the edge of her audial, hands on her waist. “Look at yourself. I want you to watch me frag you.” She pulls Windblade back, bit by bit, until finally that spike is pushing into and _spreading_ her, and it’s so good that she wants to sob. She does when Slipstream bottoms out, _finally_ , the head of her beautiful, brilliant, wonderful, fantastic spike presses against the opening of her gestation chamber. Just a little more – just – 

A hand wraps around the base of her spike, hard and cruel and this time she _does_ stop crying as her rising overload is halted in its steps. “Oh, Windblade, I won’t let this end that easily. We’ve hardly even started.” 

Windblade chokes back a frustrated sob as Slipsteam starts to move, each slow, measured stroke scraping past nodes harsh enough to make her frame _sing_. She feels the urge to overload rise again, Slipstream nudging her helm forward with her nose until Windblade has exposed the back of her neck and _biting_ her, hard enough to leave a mark, denta sinking in to soft, vulnerable, sensitive cords. 

_Claiming_ her in a spot where no enemy should be allowed near. 

Overload takes Slipstream by surprise, caught up as she is in enjoying her enemies’ freely given vulnerability, and she finally lets Windblade tip over the edge with her. The femme sobs. Slipstream holds still, wings shivering in delicate movements, enjoying the way Windblade collapses and goes strutless. Beautiful. Soft. 

Her mindscape goes dark and hazy at the edges as Windblade loses control of the connection. Slipstream can only cling to her as her frame fades, and she’s left alone in the dark, and the cold, not even the feeling of her in her arms left. 

When she wakes up, it’s in her cell, alone, smelling like the medbay and interrogation rooms. 

Windblade does not come to her again. 

She tells herself it’s the shame that keeps her away.


End file.
